Bloodstained Skies
by Romanova's radioactive-revenge
Summary: "Mike?" Stan calls out. He's walking next to the stream. The water splashes by his feet. A few drops land on his shoes. He looks down at them. One of his laces is untied. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about much anymore. /tw: suicidal thoughts, depression


**Bloodstained Skies**

"Mike?" Stan calls out.

He's walking next to the stream. The water splashes by his feet. A few drops land on his shoes. He looks down at them. One of his laces is untied. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about much anymore.

"Mike?" He yells again.

He spots Mike a while down the river. Mike's wearing a white shirt, which stands out against the dark greens and browns of the Barrens.

Stan walks slowly towards him. He does everything slowly now. Slow. Lethargic. He's going through the motions, walking and studying and eating and breathing and wondering why he does it all. Wondering what the point is.

"Are you alright?" Stan asks, once he's a few metres away from Mike, who seems deep in thought, staring into the water with a frown.

Mike jumps, flailing around with his fists. He lands a punch on Stan's cheek. The pain is red hot and cuts through the haze of nothing that Stan has been feeling.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Mike says, his hands hovering undecidedly near Stan's face.

"I'm fine." Stan says. His voice sounds... dead. Just dead. Empty. Numb. Nothing.

Mike seems unconvinced. He steps back and looks at Stan for a moment, taking in the shadows under his eyes and his untucked shirt.

"Really?" He says finally.

Stan shrugs. Mike reaches out his hand and places it gently on Stan's shoulder.

Stan's not sure what happens next. The nothing is engulfed by a wave of feeling- fear and sadness and loss and a million other things that want to drag him down. It's worse than the nothing, somehow. At least the nothing doesn't hurt.

"Hey hey hey shhhh..." Mike whispers, pulling Stan into a hug. He rubs his hands in small circles against Stan's back. Stan collapses. He presses his face into Mike's shoulder, trying to stop the flow of tears that has accompanied the sea of feeling.

Mike keeps whispering things that don't make sense, things like everything is okay and it'll be alright and we're fine, we're all fine.

"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," He says, over and over and over until Stan starts to believe it.

The tears stop, but Stan doesn't move. He just breathes, Mike's arms around him like a shield, like armour. Stan's muscles start to relax, the tenseness in his shoulders leaving. The wave of feeling washes away, and for a moment Stan is sure that the nothing will come back, but something stays. It's a breathless feeling that's a mixture of happiness and hope and something else that Stan doesn't have a name for.

Mike smells like trees and toothpaste. Stan is suddenly very aware of Mike's arms around him and the pulse beating in Mike's neck.

He pulls away hurriedly, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"You okay?" Mike asks again.

"Yeah," Stan says.

They stand there facing each other for a moment.

"Really?" Mike asks finally. It's more of a statement.

Stan shrugs again.

"Walk with me?" He asks, half turning away. He's pretty sure he's blushing.

"Okay," Mike replies, stepping towards Stan.

Stan starts walking back the way he came. Mike matches his steps. They walk in rhythm, left right left right one two one two love you love you-

"Pardon?" Mike asks.

Stan glances over, confused.

"I thought I heard you say something," Mike adds.

Stan shakes his head. He hadn't said that out loud had he? He had.

He's definitely blushing now. He hopes it's dark enough that Mike can't see it. The sun is setting, making the leaves above them shine gold.

Stan panics. It's dark. It's night. It's going to get them, going to kill them, the Picture Lady is going to slide out from the trees and kill him, kill Mike, suck the life out of them, kill them, kill them, kill them kill them kill-

"We should get home," Stan chokes out. How did he let it get this late? This dark?

"Okay," Mike says. His hand on Stan's shoulder.

"It's dangerous. The- the- Something- I don't why don't I remember I just had it I just knew why can't I Mike I don't remember-" Stan's losing it. He can feel his mind slipping away. Rain down a window. Blood down a drain.

"Stan... It's okay. You're okay now. I'll walk you home. I'm here. Okay? Okay? Breathe. Just breathe," Mike says. His voice is low. Almost a whisper.

Stan pulls away. Mike's arms fall back to his sides.

"I'm fine. Sorry. Just tired," Stan says, with a smile. He hasn't smiled for so long his face feels like it's been ripped open-

He winces and runs his fingers through his hair. It's knotted. The bandage twisted around his face is gone. His cheeks feel bare without it.

"You don't have to pretend to me," Mike says. He reaches out like he's going to touch Stan's shoulder. Shakes his head and drops his arm.

"I'm not pretending," Stan says without much conviction. His voice is still empty sounding. Dead. Dead. Dead- (like you should be). Dead. Dead.

"It's okay-" Mike begins.

"No! No. It's not okay. I'm not okay. You're not okay. None of us are okay. Nobody in this town is okay! Not a single person! Nobody! Not you not me! Not me. Not me. Not okay. I'm not. Happy now? I'm not pretending anymore! You're welcome! I'm not done yet. I wish whatever thing- whatever it was that's broken me, I wish it had killed me. I wish I was dead. I wish! I! Was! DEAD!" He screams. Throats rips. Voice cracks. Tears, of course, because it's true and true things hurt.

He's on the floor. Knees scraped. Fingers tearing at his hair. Down his face. Shaking.

Mike. His hand on Stan's back. Small circles. The other hand prising Stan's hand away from his face.

"I'm sorry," Stan whispers.

"Don't say that. Don't say you want to die," Mike says. Slow circles. Thumb wiping Stan's tears away.

"Home?" Stan mumbles.

"Okay. Can you stand?" Mike asks. His palm resting on Stan's cheek. Stan leans into it. Warm.

"Yeah," He says.

Mike stands up. Offers a hand. Stan takes it. Mike pulls him up. His legs feel shaky. He leans onto Mike's shoulder. Mike slips his arm around Stan's shoulders.

They walk slowly. Mike takes most of Stan's weight. The energy's gone. Dead. Dead. (like you should be) Dead.

It takes a while to get back. It's blurred in Stan's mind, by tears and tiredness and nothingness.

He doesn't remember any of the walk once they're standing on the street outside Stan's house.

"Will your parents mind?" Mike whispers. There's a couple of lights on in the house.

Stan shrugs. It doesn't really matter what his parents think. Not anymore.

"I can't leave you," Mike says.

Stan stares.

"You might hurt yourself," He explains. Hands in fists by his sides. He's not going to change his mind.

He should feel something. Disappointment. Annoyance. Anger. He has a plan and Mike is going to ruin it.

But there's nothing. (relief?)

"My parents won't let you," Stan protests, halfheartedly.

"I have to," Mike says. Pleading. His hands are fiddling with his shirt. Twisting the white fabric. It looks darker. There's no light except for a street lamp across the road and the light from the windows of the houses. The moon is a ghost. The stars are shadows.

Stan hesitates ( you have to get him away you have to die you deserve to you need to you want to dead dead dead )

"Go around the back. I'll let you in. Give me ten minutes." He says.

"Promise?" Mike asks.

"Promise," Stan doesn't bother to try a reassuring smile.

His parents tell him off. He zones them out.

"Sorry. I was hanging out with Bill. We lost track of time. Sorry. It won't happen again," Stan apologises mechanically. Bill is the only one of his friends that his parents approve of. It's ridiculous and he hates lying but he wants to stay on their good side.

"Go to bed," His mom says finally, shaking her head. He leaves gladly. He underestimated how long they would tell him off for. It's been nearly twenty minutes. It's half past eleven. He's tired. He lets Mike in, pressing his finger to his lips. Shhhhh...

They walk upstairs to Stan's room. It's small and neat. It's so like Stan that it brings a smile to Mike's face. The smile quickly fades when he looks at Stan.

He's about to collapse. The lightThe smudgy shadows under his eyes are darker, the shadows slashing across his cheeks are more prominent.

"Okay. You need to sleep. Come on," Mike says, gently grabbing Stan's shoulder- sharp and bony- he's so skinny- and leading him to the bed.

Stan lies down obediently and Mike smooths the covers over him.

"Thank you," Stan whispers. His voice is rough. Tears blur Mike till he's a shadowy haze.

"Hey, that's okay. I'm here. I've got you," Mike smiles, half wanting to reach out and stroke Stan's hair, but knowing that doing so will pass a barrier, cross a line. Too much.

Stan drifts quickly into sleep. Mike sits beside him on the bed and hums so softly even he can't hear it.

Stan does, in his dreams.

Sleep song.

Mike falls asleep too, slumping uncomfortably next to Stan, legs hanging off the bed.

In Stan's dreams, Mike sings of love and loss.

In Mike's dreams, Stan smiles and laughs.

Both of them dream of kissing the other and watching as the sun sets, staining the sky with blood.

A/N: Thankyou for reading! I hope you enjoyed this. And I know they don't forget till they leave Derry, but i decided to ignore that because of reasons (basically I wrote it and couldnt be bothered to change it. I will probably add more chapters, but no promises. Reviews are literally what keeps my heart beating. xx


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